


someone's dread and darling boy

by the_ragnarok



Series: cat!Jon [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Insomnia, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Nightmares, Pet Play, Stimming, Trans Martin Blackwood, Undiagnosed autistic character, mention of past abusive relationships, nonsexual kink, past Jonathan Sims/Elias Bouchard, some mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22363888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: In which Jon goes to pet play events mainly to lurk in corners and hiss at people.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: cat!Jon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622008
Comments: 243
Kudos: 761





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to Mx_Carter for betaing super fast!!
> 
> Tags and rating are subject to change.

"I'm not going today," Jon tells his reflection in the mirror before he brushes his teeth. (If he dresses in black slacks and a black button down, that means nothing. He needs to dress professionally and he has a lot of black clothes.)

"I should stay until later," he mutters to himself at five pm, when people are starting to trickle out of the office. He packs his things mechanically, without quite looking at them. 

"I'll just go home," he says, as he boards a completely different line than the one that reaches his flat. "I'll just go back," he says at the station, and walks to an address he knows by heart. "I'll just stand outside and not come in."

But then the door opens and Georgie is smiling at him. "Well?" she says. "In or out?"

Jon walks in. At this point, he has no argument to defend himself. 

It's warm inside, too warm for long sleeves, but Jon's accustomed to that. It's well lit, at least; if Jon never has to endure another too-dark, too-loud venue, it'll be too fucking soon. Jon takes off his shoes at the entrance and places them in the cube shelf he usually occupies, second on the left and third from the top. Inside, the ground is covered in soft mats. 

About half the people in the room are on the floor - on hands and knees, kneeling, sat on cushions at someone's feet, sprawled indolently. Of those on the floor, most of them are in various states of undress. Most of them are wearing collars, ears, or tails. It's that kind of event. 

Jon finds his corner and settles. There's an overstuffed chair right at the end of the mats, making it awkward to kneel or play there, so it's frequently unused. Jon's one concession to the theme of the event is that rather than sit up, he curls sideways in the chair and watches the room. 

Most people are in pairs but some are wandering the room unattached. Jon's attention settles on a young man, large and soft with gingery hair, who seems particularly lost. Jon doesn't recall seeing him before. 

On the floor before Jon, a flash of color comes and goes. Jon's focus is drawn to it; it's a worm on a string, waved about by a woman holding a man on a leash. Jon blinks, and names slot into place: Sasha and Michael, respectively. Jon's played with Sasha before. She knows to mind his boundaries. 

He lowers himself to kneel on the mats, a little way away from the chair, and bats at the worm when it next comes near. It's painfully silly and enormously satisfying. Sasha send the worm at him, and he bats again, and again--

"Aren't you a cute kitty," someone coos at him, and that's all the warning Jon gets before a hand lands on his head.

Or would have landed, if he hadn't moved away. He coils himself tightly in the corner, the bare floor hard and cold under his knees, looking up to hiss at the person who tried to harass him. 

"Sheesh," says the person, a woman Jon doesn't know. "Friendly, aren't you?" But she leaves him and goes to another part of the room, presumably so she can bother someone else, and Jon doesn't feel human enough to talk to Georgie about her. 

Michael saunters close enough to him to speak, though not so close as to upset Jon further. "Want Sasha to tell the DMs?" he says.

Jon shakes his head. He presses himself into the wall, as though he could hide inside it. 

Michael looks across the room. "Oh, look, I think one of the tubes is free."

The tubes are large plastic cylinders, padded on the inside, just large enough that a grown man who isn't very big can cram himself inside. Jon can move very fast on hands and knees, and he shoots across the room to reach the unoccupied tube. 

Inside the tube, reassuring pressure surrounds him from above and below, and Jon can relax. The back of the tube is bolted to the wall. Nobody can sneak up on him there. 

He sits in there for a little while. Then someone outside coughs nervously and says, "Are you alright?"

Jon answers with a low growl. He'd be perfectly alright if people just left him alone. 

Slowly, tentatively, something colorful descents at the entrance to the tube. A feather. Jon considers hooking his fingers into claw-shapes and sticking out his hand, the agreed nonverbal stop signal, but decides to wait and see where this goes. 

"I'll count to five," says the voice outside. "If you don't want to play, just don't do anything, and I'll go." The man speaking takes a breath. "One."

Jon contemplates the feather. It's green. 

"Two."

He could do with some more play. He doesn't want to be lured out. 

"Three."

Not yet, or not by a stranger. 

"Four."

But he doesn't have to come out, does he?

"Fi-- uh!" The feather moves away when Jon bats at it. 

Jon waits, and a second later, the feather is back where it was. It's wiggling. 

Jon bats again, the feather withdraws, and Jon hears a startled laugh. 

The man has more patience for this game than Jon would have expected. He doesn't try to lure Jon out, or get close, definitely doesn't try to touch him. 

Finally, curiosity wins out. Jon crawls out of the tube, wincing at the pins and needles in his leg. 

Next to the tube crouches the new guy Jon noticed before. He beams at Jon and says, "Oh, hello." He makes no move to come closer. "I'm Martin." He doesn't ask for Jon's name.

Jon's contrary nature asserts itself. "Jon," he says.

Martin startles and almost loses his balance. Jon doesn't laugh. That would be mean. He does give a little cough. 

Improbably, Martin keeps beaming at him. "Lovely meeting you, Jon."

Jon looks at the tube, back at the feather Martin's still clutching, and raises an eyebrow. 

Martin looks almost defiant when he says, "It was!"

Jon shrugs. If this Martin has odd ideas about what constitutes a good time, that's not Jon's problem. He nods to Martin and goes back to his overstuffed chair. 

For the rest of the evening, it's enough to curl up in a comfortable spot and not be expected to talk or make decisions. Jon watches the others play, and is content.

As the party starts winding down, Georgie finds him. "Had a good time?" 

Jon considers. There were some less pleasant parts, but overall, "It was fine."

"Don't go overboard with praise or anything," Georgie says dryly. 

"It was good." Jon remembers his manners. "Thank you for organizing."

"You're welcome. And don't forget we could always use more DMs." 

Jon snorts. He won't dignify that idea with a verbal response. 

He still won't come again. It's not that it's a bad event, but it's time he put this part of his life behind him. Grow up. Move on. 

(He's had this same conversation with himself every month of the last six, every time he attended this kind of event.)

* * *

"There's a good kitty," Elias murmurs, caressing Jon's jaw with his knuckles. "You know what good kitties get?"

Jon watches him dumbly, even as his entire being screams at him to get away. With Elias, rewards are often more dangerous than punishment. 

Elias smiles, cloyingly sweet like a rotting fruit, and pulls Jon closer by his collar.

Jon opens his eyes. He doesn't scream, or sit up in bed. A moment later, he gets up and goes to put the kettle on. So much for sleeping tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

After the pet romps Jon often has nightmares. On other days, for variety's sake, he can't fall asleep.

It's fine. He gets more work done drinking a pot of Earl Grey at two am than he sometimes does in an entire office day. He doesn't fall asleep at work or make serious mistakes. He's just tired.

The month passes quickly, and another romp is looming on the horizon. On the day of the event, Jon doesn't even spare the effort of arguing himself out of going. He doubts his mind is a very good source of advice at the moment, anyway.

* * *

For the fourth time in as many minutes, Jon's eyelids droop shut. He's sat on his chair in the corner - alright, not _his_ chair, just a chair he frequently occupies. A part of him considers going home, where he has a nice warm bed. Another part remembers staring at the ceiling for hours on end before giving up. Also, honestly, he's not sure he can navigate the tube on his own like this.

"Jon?"

At the sound of his name, Jon startles. Martin is standing right in front of him. Jon would probably have noticed him approach if his situational awareness weren't shot to shit. It makes him snippy. "What?"

Martin holds up his hands, placating. "Are you alright? You seem...." he hesitates. "Tired."

Jon grimaces. "I wonder what gave you that idea." He winces at his own scathing tone. "Sorry," he says, low and rough. "I guess I am, yeah." As he speaks, a solution presents itself to Jon. He looks around. Sadly, none of the people he's played with are around. His eyes drag back to Martin, and he amends, _Almost all_. "Could you do me a favor?"

Martin looks... enthused, which is an odd reaction but Jon's too weary to judge. "'Course, yeah. What is it?"

"Have you considered asking what it is _before_ agreeing?" Jon runs his face. "Ugh. I think I'll take a short nap, ten minutes or so. Would you hang around and make sure nobody," Jon's mouth twists, "touches me?"

"Of course!" Martin hesitates. "I mean, if you're sure. You barely know me."

"I know I need to sleep," Jon says, aiming at cutting and arriving at pitiful.

Martin folds like a house of cards. "Sleep is important. You should do that. I mean, if you want to." He adds, mumbling, "I'll shut up now."

Jon vaguely nods and sets an alarm for ten minutes. He curls up and is asleep before Martin is quite finished speaking.

* * *

Jon wakes up alarmingly well rested. He's covered in a blanket, one belonging to the romp, and his back is protesting his position.

"Fuck," he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

"Good timing!" Georgie calls from a few meters away, where she's stacking up mats. "If you'd slept any longer I would've had to lock you two in here."

"You two," Jon repeats. He looks at the other direction, where Martin is still sat on the floor, fiddling with a tangle toy. With a sinking feeling, Jon asks, "Have you been here the whole evening?"

"You slept right past your alarm," Martin says, staring down at the toy. "I didn't want to wake you up by touching you. Georgie said to let you sleep. She's the one who put a blanket on you." He hesitates, then looks up at Jon, anxious. "Was that all right? She said you were friends."

Jon is torn between irritability and guilt. "It's fine." He groans. "And you didn't get anyone to spell you out?"

"Georgie sat with you when I had to, um, go, but otherwise, just me." Martin's shoulders are hunched. "Sorry?"

"What are you sorry for?" Jon asks, incredulous. "You spent the entire event babysitting me, I should apologize to you."

"I felt more like a bodyguard, really." Martin relaxes somewhat and smiles at him. "Besides, being stuck in one place because of a sleeping cat is a known hazard. I didn't mind."

Jon stares at Martin. Before he can think better of it, "You're a very odd person," comes out of his mouth. "But. You stayed with me, and I. I appreciate that. Thank you."

Martin's smile softens. "You looked like you needed a rest."

Given that Jon was literally falling asleep where he sat, he doesn't suppose he can object. He doesn't have to like it, though.

Martin leaves shortly afterwards, and Jon gets up to help Georgie with the tail end of post-event cleanup.

"You know," Georgie says idly, "I'm thinking of inviting Martin to my place on Saturday for the thing."

Jon gives her a sharp look. He doesn't buy her nonchalant act for a second. "Really." 

"Mm-hm." She waits a few more minutes before saying, "You know you have a standing invitation."

"I know," Jon says shortly, and puts away a box of fidget toys.

* * *

Despite everything, next Saturday finds him knocking on Georgie's door.

She opens it and grins at him. "Jon! So glad you could make it." She's dressed casually, her hair down, in leggings and a tank top.

Because Georgie's little gatherings don't have a dress code, and it is his day off, Jon came similarly casual, in threadbare jeans and a t-shirt gone soft with washing. He lets Georgie usher him in, and eyes the stickers in the bowl next to the door where Georgie's keys usually live.

The stickers are green, orange and red. "Why not yellow?" Jon asks, examining one of them.

"One of my guests has a trigger," Georgie says, and Jon nods. "Will you be taking one?"

Jon shrugs. The stickers are for interaction: green means willingness to be touched unasked by anyone - as this is a nonsexual event, the touching would have to be nonsexual. Jon can understand the usefulness of it, academically. He is not the only person who likes to stop talking in these events. The orange presumably stands for the same thing as the yellow before it, meaning "Ask before touching", and the red means "Don't even ask". The sheet of red stickers is still pristine. Jon feels a little self-conscious, grabbing the first one and putting it on his chest, where it's clearly visible.

"I have your old corner set up for you," Georgie says, and gestures at a gap between two couches, where a dog bed sits. They bought that dog bed together, during their short, failed attempt at a relationship. Even though Jon insisted the bed should stay with Georgie (because it was only a matter of time before he stopped going to these events, stopped needing this), Georgie was unmoved: the bed was Jon's, to use whenever he needed.

"I'm amazed you haven't thrown it out," Jon says.

Georgie simply says, "Just because we broke up doesn't mean you don't have a place here," and Jon has to look away.

The dog bed feels right, smells right, when Jon curls up in it. He takes a while to just let himself relax. Feel familiarity and safety envelop him.

"Jon!"

Jon looks up lazily. It's Martin, standing an acceptable distance away. Martin's holding a palm-sized colorful ball, which he bounces on the floor and catches. Jon's attention catches on to the movement.

Martin smiles at him, crouches, and gently rolls the ball at him.

The ball hits the side of the dog bed. Jon takes a minute to consider. He doesn't have to play. He can keep lying here, unmoving.

Then he grabs the ball, lies on his back, tosses it in the air and catches it. Sometimes it's nice to be a cat with opposable thumbs.

This diverts Jon's focus for a while, so that it takes him some time to notice that Martin is staring at him, eyes turned just below Jon's face. Jon looks down and sees nothing but his shirt collar, worn loose, exposing his collarbone. He looks back at Martin, whose face heats up. Martin mutters something and walks away.

Jon keeps playing with the ball, but stops after three throws. His heart's not really in it.

He goes to explore instead. The party isn't too cramped, despite the size of Georgie's living room. There's less than ten people in attendance, himself and Georgie included. Jon sits on his haunches and watches as Tim, in his pup mask, rolls on his back to expose his belly. He's shirtless, but there's a streak of green dye all over his solar plexus.

Sasha bends to pet Tim. He wiggles and makes happy noises as she rubs his belly. Then Sasha turns to Martin, staring at the scene from a little way away, and asks, "Do you want a go?"

Martin approaches tentatively. Sasha laughs. "Don't worry, Tim doesn't bite unless asked. Unlike some people." Her voice is fond, but it makes Jon bristle.

He's not much mollified when Martin does rub Tim's belly gently, moving up to scratch him behind the ears. Tim leans into the touch and hums in ecstasy.

Jon wants to go home, and he wants to go home right now.

He advances toward the door on hands and knees when he hears Martin calling his name, sounding concerned. "Jon? Is everything all right?" It is very much not, and even if Jon were fully human right now he wouldn't know how to explain it.

He turns to look at Martin, who's wearing a crestfallen expression. He has a green sticker, Jon notices, on his chest.

Jon doesn't know why he approaches Martin. He bonks his head against Martin's shin, too abrupt to really be affectionate, then gets to his feet and walks out without saying goodbye to anyone. He'll apologize to Georgie later.

* * *

There are strong arms wrapped around Jon, keeping him solid and still. Elias's voice murmurs in his ears, as indistinct as the sound of waves crashing on the shore.

Even without hearing the words, they turn Jon's gut from easy warmth to ice. "No," he says. "No."

Elias's voice is sorrowful, and now Jon can hear him. He wishes he couldn't. "Oh, Jon," says Elias. "We've talked about this, haven't we?"

They have. Too late, Jon is struck by the understanding that he'd fucked up yet again.

Elias's arms let go of him, and Jon tumbles down to the floor. Unheld, his bones crumple like plasticine, until he's nothing but the disgusting mess Elias made him into, like a puddle of molten wax.

It's not over. Jon knows this in his misshapen bones. He wishes to God it was. Because Elias makes a considering noise and digs his hands into Jon, into the clay that was his flesh and sinew, pushes and pulls and sculpts while Jon has no mouth to cry out with. "There we go," Elias says finally, satisfied. "Isn't this better?"

The mirror comes out of nowhere, but now it's all Jon can see; and he sees a porcelain doll, perfect and foreign, nothing like him except for his terrified dark eyes.

"Subtle," Jon grumbles to himself on waking up. It's not like he wasn't aware of the risks he faced, continuing his visits to Georgie's parties. His mouth tastes like metal. He gets up and goes in search of work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some body horror in this chapter, but it's in a dream.


	3. Chapter 3

Whenever someone walks into the romp's main room, Jon finds himself turning to see who it is. "Are you looking for someone?" Michael asks him from where he's curled bonelessly around Sasha. Jon shrugs and tries to focus on the fishing rod Sasha is teasing him with.

Even so, he manages somehow to miss Martin coming in. Jon's certain Martin was not in the room when he arrived, and he never saw Martin enter, but there it is: one moment he's curled up in his chair and staring at the ceiling, thinking of nothing in particular, and the next he realizes Martin is sat on the floor on the other side of the room.

The same magnetism that drew Jon's attention to the door now reshapes itself so that he can't look away from Martin, who seems... withdrawn, somehow. Martin isn't initiating play with anyone, though when a pup Jon doesn't know saunters to Martin with a ball in her mouth, Martin plays a few rounds of fetch with her before she bounds off. A handler holding an unoccupied leash stops to talk to Martin, who gives an unconvincing laugh and the handler goes on his way.

 _Maybe he's waiting for Tim,_ Jon thinks, but even as the thought forms he can't hold on to it. Tim's not coming tonight anyway, Georgie mentioned something about a late shift at work.

Martin just keeps sitting there, not doing anything, looking unhappy, and it's driving Jon crazy.

Finally Jon can't take it. He goes to Sasha again, waving his hand in the direction of the fishing rod (which belongs to Sasha, not to the event), and giving her a questioning look. "Sure," Sasha says. "Need someone to-- ah, nevermind," she says as she catches sight of Martin. "Go on, have fun."

Jon isn't going to carry equipment in his mouth, especially not another person's; that's just unsanitary. He's also not willing to go to Martin three-legged. He has some shreds of dignity left. So he goes to Martin on two legs, then collapses back to hands and knees in front of him, less graceful than he would have liked. He pushes the rod at Martin tentatively.

Martin looks at him, blinks, and a slow smile starts spreading until it fills his entire face. It makes Jon have an emotion, and he hates it, but even that's preferable to Martin sitting there like he doesn't deserve to enjoy the party. Jon shoves the rod forward again, and Martin picks it up.

For a little while, Jon can lose himself in playing. He does look at Martin, from the corner of his eye, and Martin continues looking enormously pleased, like he'd won a prize.

Jon misses his next grab at the dangly toy, but finds words. "What are you doing?"

Martin waggles the rod. "Isn't it obvious?"

Jon sits up. "You know what I mean."

"And you know what _I_ mean," Martin says. He lays the rod down next to him. "But for clarity's sake: I like you, and I like playing with you, and I want to keep doing that."

"But why?" Jon can't keep the frustration out of his voice. "You're not just playing with me to pass the time. You're... waiting for me."

"Are you saying I shouldn't?" Martin asks, equanimously.

Jon sighs. "I'm saying it's going to be a very long wait, and the prize at the end isn't much to look forward to."

"I'm not sure I agree with you there. Besides, I'm enjoying the journey so far." Martin spreads his hands, then leaves them, palm-up with gently curled fingers, resting on his knees.

Jon's laser-focus switches to Martin's fingers. They're rather thick, and have a few tiny scars on them. Jon likes them. Jon wants, Jon wants--

He lowers himself with a noise halfway between a growl and a rusty purr and swipes his cheek over Martin's fingers, once, twice. He raises his eyes to meet Martin's. For half a second, he's terrified: the public romp doesn't have interaction stickers, and Martin's preferences might have changed.

But Martin is looking at Jon with amazement, like Jon just revealed he had a pair of wings under his shirt. Slowly, slowly, he raises his hand. "May I pet you?"

Just as slowly, Jon nods. Martin has good hands. Martin's hands feel heavenly tangled in Jon's hair, gently rubbing his nape, tracing his thumb behind Jon's ears. Jon's making noises he thought he'd forgotten how to make. It's good. It's so good.

Then, abruptly, it's too much. Jon shoots away to the tubes, only to find them all occupied. He goes to his chair instead, curls up tight and tries not to hyperventilate.

"You're giving that boy an awful lot of mixed signals," Michael says from a little way away.

Jon hisses at him, but it's half-hearted at best. When he sneaks looks at Martin, Martin still looks... stunned. Unbelieving. Joyous, in a way that guts Jon. _What are you **doing**?_, Jon thinks, and doesn't know who he's thinking at.

* * *

That night, he dreams of licking square, blunt fingers. He wakes up not knowing what to do. He's become accustomed to nightmares. This is... not that, and he doesn't know how to deal with it.

He should probably stay away. From Martin, from the romps, from all of it. But he's known that already, and that never stopped him from going where he shouldn't.

* * *

Instead, what almost stops him is a coworker being a complete idiot, and Jon's own terrible luck. 

He's making himself tea when a hand lands on his shoulder. Jon yelps and jerks away. Boiling water spills on his arm.

"Oh!" Arnold, the person who touched him, has his hands raised to his mouth. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Jon! I was just trying to get your attention!"

"Tap," Jon bites out.

"I didn't mean, of course, I was only trying to--"

"Let me. Get at. The tap," Jon says through gritted teeth.

"Oh! Right, right. Sorry, wasn't thinking." Finally he clears the way. "You know, you should go to A&E with that."

Jon just barely manages not to hiss at him. "I'll take that under advisement," he says instead, tightly. His arm is just beginning to hurt, and he can tell this is going to be unpleasant.

Typing with his left hand only is awkward and annoying, and Jon doesn't get half as much done as he'd wish. He wants to do a good job, wants to prove his worth to an employer that hired him, without references, after his short time working for the Magnus Institute. On some of his worse days, Jon imagines going back to ask Elias for a reference. That would go swimmingly, he's sure. 

Despite all this, come five o'clock, Jon packs up and leaves. The romp is today. He hasn't gone to any of Georgie's gatherings since his last attempt. His one night of good dreams proved to be an outlier. 

He holds his hand close to his body as he exits the building, as he rides the tube, as he walks to the romp. When he arrives, he finds himself exhausted. He may just curl up for a nap. He looks around for someone to keep watch while he naps, and finds Martin. Well. This time, Jon will tell Martin to wake him up if he oversleeps. It should be fine. 

Instead of that exchange, however, Martin asks, "What happened to your arm?"

Jon glances at his right arm, which is bright red. "Spilled some tea," he says, dismissively. "I wanted to ask you to watch while I nap. I--"

"What, and just let your arm stay like this?" Martin says, incredulous. "I'm pretty sure the romp rules have something to say about playing while impaired. Do I need to get Georgie to send you to a walk in centre?" Jon flinches. Martin bites his lip. "I'm sorry, but this could get infected if you don't get it seen to. Is there anything I could do to help?"

Jon rolls his eyes. "Unless you want to bandage it yourself, not so much."

The look in Martin's eyes is unreadable. He holds up a hand. "Give me a minute." He walks to the entrance and picks what looks like a small suitcase out of a cube shelf. He comes back and opens it to reveal what looks like an entire hospital's worth of equipment. "I'm a nurse," Martin says, defensively, when Jon gives him a look. "Uh, a nursing student."

"What, and you just carry that around in case someone's wounds need bandaging?"

"Well. Yes." Martin fidgets. "Though I don't know if this is a good place to do it."

"Quiet room," Jon says, and walks that way without looking to see if Martin follows him. 

The quiet room is abandoned at this point in the evening. Most people have only started playing, and won't need aftercare for some time yet. Jon sits down on a couch, and Martin drags a footstool across from Jon and sits on it, spreading his kit on the couch next to Jon. 

Martin takes out a packet of disposable gloves, rips it open and puts them on. "Right," he says. "Your hand, please?" He holds out his own hand, and Jon, with a short hesitation, obeys. "I'll just put some burn cream on it and bandage it, we'll be done in no time. It's not too bad, as burns go." 

Bit by bit, Martin's voice becomes background noise, washing over Jon, drowning out other sounds. Martin's grip on his hand is warm through the nitrile. It doesn't feel like Martin wants anything except for Jon to be well. 

"--Jon? Jon!"

Jon blinks up at him.

"I said, this is going to be a little cold, so please try to stay still."

Jon nods, and sinks back into incomprehension. Martin sounds like he knows what he's doing. Martin's watched over him before. 

The cream _is_ cold, but Jon holds still anyway. Martin's very gentle. It hurts anyway, but the pain is distant enough not to matter. Nothing feels real except for the points of warmth that are Martin's palm and fingers, keeping him in place. Martin puts gauze on the burn, and wraps bandages around it, loose. It occurs to Jon to wonder how it might feel if the bandages were tighter. Would that also feel like being held?

"There you go, all set," Martin says, and lets go. "Do you want any-- Jon?"

Jon realizes he's shivering-- no, shaking, hard enough that he has to clench his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. Martin's not touching him, that one point of reality removed, and the world is a flood of colors and shapes and sounds that don't make any sense. Through his clenched jaw, through the dawning of terror, Jon says, "Touch me. Please."

Martin's hand returns to Jon's wrist immediately, and Jon can breathe.

Martin keeps talking. "--you need? What can I do?"

"Keep touching me." If he stops, Jon knows he will be lost in that flood. He will fall, and all his bones will bend, and.... No, that was just a nightmare. Jon claws onto his reason. This is just, what did Elias call it? An altered mind state. 

Elias taught him how to get what he needed, when this happens to him. "We could go to the dark room," Jon says. That's where people who want to have sex at the public romp go. "I," he has to offer something good, something enticing. "I'll suck you."

Martin is silent for long enough that Jon worries he did something wrong. Then Martin says, voice high, "You... don't sound very enthused about that."

Jon hunches. He knows he's a bad liar. "I'm trying. I'll be good."

"Jon." Martin's voice sounds wobbly, like he's about to cry, but his grip on Jon's hand conveys no doubts. "What if, if we just sat here, and I held your hand?"

The relief is too much. "You'd do that?" Jon's voice comes out very small.

"Of course. I'd love to." Martin sounds so gentle, and Jon can't stop shaking. "What else do you need? Water, food?"

What Jon needs is his sanity back, but barring that, "Just don't leave me." He hates his voice, hates the words it's forming. 

"Not on your life," Martin says, and sounds like he means it.

* * *

When Jon comes to his senses, the room has more occupants, but they're all minding their own business. Jon takes a moment to regulate his breathing. "Thank you," he says, when his voice feels like it will obey him.

"Glad I could help." Martin looks at him with an expression Jon can't fathom. "Did I, was it something I did wrong?"

"No." Jon makes himself pull his hand back, and hugs himself. "Just... fell into sub space, I guess. Sorry. In my defense, I didn't know that would happen." In his last months with Elias, the bouts of that state were less and less frequent, and he never did understand why or how. 

"I really didn't mind." Martin considers. "Well, you seemed terrified and I definitely don't want that to happen. But as long as I could help, I was fine. You seemed to be having a good time, even, after a while."

"Yes." Much as it pains Jon to admit it. "Well, I thank you, but I've taken enough of your time. I should go."

Martin's eyes are hazel, clear and bright. "I won't keep you if you want to go, but don't leave for my sake."

Jon shakes his head and retreats.

Georgie finds him on his way out. "Jon? I saw you in the quiet room, that looked intense. Is there anything I should know?" Her expression is wary. Jon wonders what she thinks happened.

"Nothing. I had an injury, Martin, well." He displays his bandaged arm. "I... had a strong reaction I didn't expect. Not his fault."

Georgie looks troubled. "You know that if he crosses any lines, you can come to me, right? I believed you then and I'll believe you again."

Jon closes his eyes. He can't deal with more memories of Elias tonight. "I know. He was good. Wonderful. Please, I just need to go home."

Georgie walks him to the door, like she's worried he can't find his own way out, and makes him call a taxi. The sad thing is that she's absolutely right to do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- Jon offers to have sex he doesn't want,and is rebuffed  
> \- mentions of abusive relationship and coersion. Also Elias used to be Jon's boss, so workplace sexual harassment.   
> \- sub space is scary  
> \- mild burn and caretaking


	4. Chapter 4

Jon spends a good long while pacing his room and calling himself nine kinds of idiot. This doesn't help much with his question, which is, what should he do about Martin?

The obvious answer, the correct one, is _nothing_. Stop playing with Martin, wait for Martin to get over him and find some other, more suitable play partner. And yet, Jon's recent actions show that he can no more stay away from Martin than he can stay away from the romps.

Alright. Discard that. What's left?

One part of Jon wants to just... keep going. Continue as they have been, and let the chips fall where they will. Eventually Martin will realize the folly of his interest in Jon, and that will hurt, but Jon will manage. 

The notion is almost tempting, except Jon remembers the last few weeks before he and Elias broke up. The constant feeling of inadequacy, of frantic attempts to somehow overcome himself to be the person Elias wanted. Even thinking about living in the shadow of imminent failure for however long it takes for Martin to give up makes Jon want to break something. 

He needs to talk to Martin. He has no other option.

* * *

"Seriously?" Georgie asks. Jon can imagine her eyebrows climbing on the other side of the phone. "I can't just give out private information for participants in my events."

"I'm not asking you to give me his phone number," Jon says.

"That's exactly what you just asked for."

Jon swallows and continues, determined. "No, I'm asking you to check with him if it's okay for you to give me his phone number. Completely different request." Georgie hesitates and Jon pushes. "If he says no, we'll speak no more of this. But do you really think he'll say no?"

After some deliberation, Georgie says, "I'll ask. As a mutual friend. But I'm making no promises either way." 

Jon lets out a breath. "That's fine. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Georgie says ominously, and hangs up.

* * *

Martin not only gives Georgie permission to share his number with Jon, he sounds outright delighted when Jon calls him. 

"I want to meet you somewhere where we can talk. About boundaries." Jon thinks that sounds better than _I want to explain to you why pursuing me would be a terrible idea._

Far from objecting, Martin readily says, "Of course!" And rattles a long list of times and dates when he's available. 

Jon suggests they meet for a late lunch at a restaurant near his office. It has two floors, and the second one is almost abandoned that time of day: public enough for safety and good practice, private enough that they can really talk. 

Martin accepts. "And thanks for calling," he says, shy. 

"You're welcome." They exchange goodbyes and Jon hangs up. His face feels odd, and it takes him a moment to realize he's smiling. He scowls fiercely and goes back to his desk, where he attacks the stacked-up paperwork with grim determination.

* * *

Jon arrives five minutes early to find Martin already there, looking sheepish and carrying a large reusable bag in one hand, full of something bulky and white. 

"I hope you haven't been waiting long," he tells Martin, stiff. 

"No, not at all. Even if I were, it's my fault for showing up early." Martin gives him such a hopeful smile that it makes him ache. "Shall we head inside?"

They better. Martin's not wearing any gloves. His hands must be freezing. Jon leads the way inside and asks to sit on the second floor. As predicted, they're the only ones there. 

"Alright," Martin says. "Order, then start talking?"

"We can start now. It'll be a while before the waiter gets here." Jon draws a deep breath. The sooner he kills this, the sooner he'll get over it. "So. Boundaries. Here are some of mine." He closes his eyes. "I don't like to have sex outside of subspace. In subspace, I don't like giving oral sex, and I can't bottom for intercourse. I don't enjoy pain or humiliation of any kind. The idea of putting on a collar again is," he gulps another breath, "bad. Very bad. I don't like to be touched at all unless I initiate it."

Martin doesn't say anything. 

Despite himself, Jon adds, "I _can_ have sex in most of those ways, and I can initiate it, but I'm not going to be terribly convincing about wanting it."

Now Martin does speak. He says, "Jon," his voice steeped in sorrow. 

Jon resists the urge to hug himself. After all, it's not like he didn't know he's putting an end to Martin's tentative courtship. "What?"

"Would you look at me?" Martin says softly. Reluctantly, Jon does. Martin's eyes are suspiciously bright. He takes a shuddering breath. "Can I tell you some of my boundaries?"

Slowly, warily, Jon nods.

"First of all, I never want to do anything to you that you don't want. Never. If that happens because you couldn't tell me, that's not your fault, but that's not what I'm after. Please let me know anything I can do to avoid that." Martin sags a little. "Also, I don't like to have people touching my, um, naughty bits, so that's not an issue."

"Naughty bits," Jon repeats. The rest of what Martin says is just-- too much. Jon's mind is still trying to break it into manageable parts. "That's the phrase you're going with?"

Martin shrugs. "It's the first one that came to mind that doesn't make me dysphoric, so, yeah."

Jon cringes. "Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." He trails off. "I say that kind of thing pretty often. You should know that. My personality as a human isn't much of an improvement on my personality as a cat."

Martin's expression softens into a smile. "I like you as a cat." He hesitates, then adds, "I'd like to get to know you as a human, too."

The waiter chooses to arrive a moment after that. Jon orders without looking at the menu. Martin flails a little, rifling through the menu in a hurry, but asks for shepherd's pie, which the place makes acceptably well. 

"You're talking about dating me," Jon says once the waiter is gone. He doesn't mean to sound as accusing as he does. 

Martin seems only a little flustered. "If you're asking what I want, then yes, I want that."

"I don't cuddle," Jon reminds him. "I don't have sex."

"I know."

"What do you think dating me would even look like?" Jon demands, exasperated.

Martin looks around them. "Like this, pretty much. Going places with you. Talking." He glances at the stairwell. "Watching you play with cat toys."

Strangled, Jon says, "That doesn't sound terribly rewarding for you."

Martin raises his eyebrows. "Tell me, Jon, does a career in nursing sound rewarding to you?"

"No," Jon says. He can think of few jobs he'd like less. 

"Well, it does to me, which makes sense because we're different people. I mean, I don't find batting at toys satisfying."

"But you like to watch me do it," Jon says slowly.

Martin says, "I do." He smiles in pleasant reminiscence. "Your face when you do it is... very expressive."

"And that's why you want to date me? Because of my face?"

"It's a very nice face," Martin says, shrugging. "But that's not all." He takes a moment, frowning in concentration. "I like that you make it clear when you're displeased. I liked it when you let me take care of you." He blushes. "A lot. But of course I don't expect--"

"I liked it too." The words emerge from Jon's mouth unbidden. He rolls on. "I came here so you'll realize I'm a bad investment and give up."

"If you want me to stop, you just have to say," Martin says. "If you were trying to make me not want you, I'm sorry, but you achieved the opposite."

Jon leans back in his seat, feeling wrung out. "You're inexplicable."

"You're cute," Martin counters. 

That's enough to make Jon draw up in haughty disdain. "I am not!" Martin looks starry-eyed, like he's minutes away from making kissy noises. "You find this cute?"

"I want to boop your nose," Martin says, awe-stricken. 

Jon considers. To his horror, he thinks he might like that. "I may have to bite your hand to salvage my dignity."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take. That was a yes to booping, then?" 

Jon nods. Martin reaches across the table and gently presses his fingers to Jon's nose. It's good, and at the same time, the kind of _too much_ that usually has him bolting away. 

The restaurant has no hiding place, but they're alone and Jon can grab Martin's hand and close his teeth on the fleshy part below the little finger. The pressure against his jaw is like a grounding rod, sending the unbearable spark of his emotions over to safety. 

He lets go a second later, ashamed of himself. "Sorry."

Martin doesn't look upset, however. He looks impressed, checking out the teeth marks Jon left on his palm. "What for? I said you could."

"Good kitties don't bite," Jon says. He abruptly wishes he could swallow back the words, even if they make him sick. 

Martin regards him steadily. "Is that what you want to be?"

Jon groans and hides his face in his hands. "I don't know."

Their food arrives then, and for a while they focus on it rather than speaking. 

Eventually, Martin says, "I rather liked you biting me."

Jon gives him a withering look. "Should I scratch as well?" Martin looks at Jon's hands, at his too-long, should-be-cut fingernails, with something like longing. "Wait. You'd like that?"

"I'd love it," Martin says, with an honesty that takes Jon's breath away. "If you scratched my back I might swoon."

Suddenly, Jon can imagine just that. Martin's bare back, pale skin reddening under Jon's hands. Would Martin make noises? What would the give of his flesh be like if Jon laid hands on him? 

"Jon? Are you alright?"

Jon closes his eyes again. If he weren't mortified by the thought, he might also have covered his ears and rocked in place. "This is too much. I don't know what to do with this."

Martin makes a considering noise. "Can I try something? I want to put this blanket on you and see if it helps."

"Be my guest," Jon bites out, thoughts spiralling uselessly in every direction at once. 

Then something heavy is on his shoulders, pushing him down. Jon makes a very odd sound and melts under the pressure.

"Jon? Is this helping?"

Jon nods. His breathing is slowing down. He _can_ breathe without feeling like he's about to spin out of control. The heaviness on him is present, real, and it keeps him feeling real as well. Finally, he manages to say, "What is this?"

"Just a heavy blanket," Martin says. "It belonged to my grandma."

"Do you take that everywhere, too?" Jon's just about ready to believe that.

"I brought it because I wanted you to have it."

That gets Jon's attention. He looks up sharply at Martin. "What?"

Martin shrugs helplessly. "You like the tubes at the romp so much, I thought you might enjoy the pressure stim. I don't use it anyway, I run too hot."

"But it belonged to your grandmother." Jon clutches on to this fact, trying to make sense of this interaction. 

"I have all of her flat's contents in storage. Plenty to remember her by, including blankets, and most of it just taking up space." Martin gives another sheepish smile. "I thought you'd like it."

Saying, "I do," is like ripping out teeth, but Martin deserves no less, and the beauty of his smile after Jon says that makes the effort worthwhile.

* * *

Back at his own flat, Jon struggles with spreading the blanket on the bed. Because it's heavy, and also because it feels too good for everyday. 

But before they parted, Martin mentioned, "You might sleep better with a heavy blanket," and while Jon doubts it he doesn't want to disappoint Martin by not even trying. 

He crawls under the covers and shuts his eyes. _There is zero chance of this working,_ he thinks, before falling into dreamless sleep like a rock into a lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this chapter:  
> \- mostly relationship negotiation  
> \- incipient panic attacks overruled by heavy blankets  
> \- fic-typical references to abusive relationship and having sex jon doesn't want  
> \- jon having extremely low self esteem  
> \- dysphoria mention (martin's)


	5. Chapter 5

Jon bats at the feather one last, desultory time, and turns to lie on his side. Martin's sitting cross legged next to him, smiling, and Jon decides he would like to be petted now. He goes to hands and knees and butts his head into Martin's hands.

"What's worse," Jon had asked him, before submitting to cathood, "biting you or running away?"

"What's better is whichever of those makes you more comfortable," Martin had said. At Jon's glare, he’d added, "But if I you wanted to know which one I prefer--"

"No, I just thought I'd ask in case it came up on trivia night," Jon had interjected.

Martin had giggled and said, "I'd rather you bite. But only if running isn't better for you."

So now, when the sensation of being touched becomes too much, Jon grabs Martin's hand and bites, euphoric at having an outlet that doesn't require him to leave. When he lets go of Martin's hand, he butts at it again to keep petting him. It's a vicious cycle.

After the second biting period, Jon forces himself to use words. "Are you alright?" Martin hasn't said or done anything to indicate he'd like Jon to stop, but Jon doesn't like the look of his hand.

"I'm fine," Martin says. He shakes out his hand, though, and winces. "But maybe we should consider an alternative for the next round."

The words, mild as they are, hit Jon like a kick to the chest. He's hurt Martin, he never meant to do that, but Martin said biting was preferable to running away--

"Jon?" Martin sounds concerned. "What are you doing?"

Jon realizes he has his own wrist in his mouth, biting the loose skin on the back near hard enough to draw blood. He sits up and shoves both hands beneath his thighs. "Sorry." He hasn't done that in decades, not since he was an actual child; he'd forgotten he'd ever done this at all.

Martin's expression goes neutral. "Do you want to go to the tubes, and I'll sit with you?"

No. "I want the blanket you gave me," he says, hating how petulant he sounds. He wishes he could have brought it to the romp, but he can barely carry it and he didn't want it getting dirty or lost. It's waiting for him at home. He doesn't want to go home.

Martin looks thoughtful. "What if I lay on top of you? I'm no blanket, but I am pretty heavy." His smile is self-deprecating in a way Jon doesn't like, but doesn't have words to argue with right now.

Instead, he nods and lies down, forcing himself to straighten so Martin's weight will be evenly divided. Martin lowers himself slowly, checking in with Jon every other second, until finally Jon shakes his head when Martin asks whether he wants more.

He can feel Martin's heart beating against his. It's been so long. He's pretty sure he would freak out again if he weren't pinned down so thoroughly by Martin. Jon lets out a long, ragged breath and sags under the weight.

A thought occurs to him. He rests his hand on the small of Martin's back, makes little scratching motions, and meows in a questioning fashion.

Martin makes a breathy sound. "If that's you asking about scratching me, yes please." So Jon does just that.

Scratching Martin is as soothing as biting him, except Jon can't see the result. He starts out gentle, then goes harder when Martin makes pleased sounds, and harder still, digging his fingernails into flesh. Martin's skin is so soft where the shirt has rucked up. Jon wants to keep feeling it forever. 

Martin's shoulder is right there in his line of sight, and Jon wants to bite. He pushes up to nuzzle at it, then retreats and makes snapping motions at the air. 

"Um." Martin's voice sounds funny. "We should probably talk about it first, if you want to bite me there." Jon squirms and shoves at him. Martin gets off him with alacrity. "Jon?"

Jon chirps and curls up on the floor. Talking to people has too many variables, even when he's not using words for it. He needs a break. He shakes his head when Martin asks if he wants to be petted more, and nods when he asks whether to leave Jon alone. 

A few minutes later, it occurs to him to be worried that he might have hurt Martin's feelings with his dismissal. He opens one eye and seeks Martin in the room. 

He finds him easily enough, and Martin looks fine - animated and smiling at the person he's talking to - but that's when Jon realizes that Martin's talking to Tim. 

Fifteen different urges battle in Jon's mind. Chief among them are: go sulk in one of the tubes; leave the romp immediately; go to Martin and hiss at Tim as threateningly as he can manage. He sits up and grabs at his head, trying to come up with a reasonable plan of action. 

Then he steels himself, stands up, and goes to say hi to Tim like a normal person. 

Tim doesn't have his mask on yet, which generally means he's up for talking. From what Jon hears as he approaches, they're talking about the weather, of all things. 

"Lots of accidents these days, because of the low visibility," Martin says. "Especially for people riding motorcycles. You should take care."

"I always do," Tim says with a smile. When he turns to Jon, the smile doesn't disappear, but does take on a guarded edge. "Hello, Jon. Am I encroaching on your territory?"

Jon hunches, face heating up. "He's not my territory," he says, and scolds the part of him that would, in fact, like to claim Martin as belonging to him. 

"Oh? That wasn't you who left all these marks, then? Could have fooled me."

Jon resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Tim's needling him, and not without reason: Jon has made an arse of himself before, back when he was dating Georgie and everybody seemed like a threat. Tim in particular, with his broad shoulders and golden-brown skin. "I'm not here to pick a fight."

"That'll be a first," Tim says, but his smile takes a turn for the genuine. "Listen, Martin, this was lovely but there are chew toys calling my name. Catch you another time?"

Martin bids him goodbye cordially and turns to face Jon. "How are you doing?"

"Come home with me," Jon says, which is nothing like what he meant to say. He opens his mouth to withdraw the suggestion, and finds out that he doesn't want to. 

"We don't have to," Martin says.

Jon is abruptly out of patience with himself. "I want to. Besides, you said we should talk." He turns and leaves, stomach churning.

"I suppose I did," Martin says behind him.

* * *

Jon wasn't expecting visitors, so his flat is a mess. He apologizes, but Martin waves it off. "You haven't seen mine," Martin says, "especially during the great maggot invasion of '18. It wasn't pretty."

Jon grimaces. "I imagine not."

Martin looks around him with obvious curiosity. If he cracks some joke about seeing the feral Jon in his native habitat, Jon will... do nothing, because he's disgustingly far gone on Martin. Possibly bite him on the other hand. That has potential. 

That reminds Jon. "So, what did you want to say about biting your shoulder?"

Martin blushes. It looks cute on him, bright red and very obvious. Jon wonders if the marks he left on Martin's back are the same shade. "Well... I'd get turned on, if you did."

Jon blinks. "Oh. That's it?"

"I didn't want contact to become sexual without checking with you," Martin says, defensive. 

Jon supposes that makes sense, and he says so. "How's your back?"

"It's fine." Martin gives him a ludicrously flirtatious look. "I wouldn't mind more scratches, if you felt like giving them."

Jon flexes his fingers. "That sounds enjoyable. How do you feel about taking your shirt off?"

Martin considers this. "I think I'm good," he says slowly. "I'd also like to take my binder off, if you won't try to look at or touch my chest." He turns his back to Jon and starts removing his shirt.

"Of course," Jon says, distracted by the skin being revealed. The scratch marks are faded to pink, but Jon supposes he'll soon see what they look like fresh. "You'll stop me if I go too hard?"

"Try not to draw blood and you're good," Martin says. His shirt falls to the floor. His binder is dark grey, and Martin takes a little while to get out of it. Finally, that falls to the floor as well, showing pristine, unmarked skin. 

It makes Jon's mouth water. "Biting?" he asks, starting to lose his grip on language.

"If you don't mind me being turned on, by all means," Martin says. "Consider my entire back fair game. I, um, might get noisy." He lies face down on the couch.

Jon nods, absent-minded. He bends over Martin’s back and digs his nails into Martin's left shoulder blade, first just eyeing the dents his fingers make, then the red furrows they leave behind. It's even more vivid than Martin's blush. Martin hums when Jon scratches, his breathing growing audible.

It's only when Jon sets his teeth into the meat of Martin's back that he realizes what Martin meant by _noisy_. At the first bite, Martin groans, deep and heartfelt. The sound returns when Jon bites him again, just above the waistline of his trousers. Jon delights in the firm give of flesh, in Martin's responsiveness. As Jon keeps biting and scratching, the sounds Martin makes grow higher, whines rather than groans, and the odd word makes its way inside. Mostly Jon's name and _Yes_ , a whole choir of assent. 

Jon stops when there's nary a pale patch left on Martin's back. A pang of remorse hits him. "Will this hurt tomorrow?"

"I couldn't care less." Martin sounds utterly content, all but purring, which makes Jon chuckle. "Give me five minutes, I'll get dressed and be out of your hair."

"You'll do no such thing," Jon says, without thinking. "Turn a play partner out late at night with no aftercare? Georgie would have my hide." He hesitates. "The couch is small, but I've slept on it before. You can take the bed."

Martin turns around and faces him. His expression is hazy. He looks beautiful. "I wouldn't mind sharing," he says. "The opposite of that."

Jon considers. The idea of a night in bed with Martin sounds fantastic and unbearable in equal measures. "The couch is a better idea, I think."

Martin nods. "All right. Would you mind looking away while I...?" He gestures at his binder. 

"No, not at all." In the meanwhile, Jon goes to brush his teeth. He regrets losing the taste of Martin in his mouth, but hygiene is hygiene. 

When he comes back out, Martin has his shirt back on. It's a button-down, and Jon wishes he had sleeping clothes that would fit him. Martin's putting the throw pillows away in a tidy pile, his large hands so careful, and Jon blurts out, "I can't be your cat."

Martin doesn't quite look at him, but Jon catches him flinch. "I know."

"But." Jon swallows and forces himself to continue. "I'd like to be... attached. For you to have a right to my time and attention, and for me to have the same. I'd like that to have a name." 

Slowly, Martin turns to him, and his expression is tender and amused. "Jon. Are you saying you can't be my cat, but you'd like to be my boyfriend?"

Jon considers this. "For a value of boyfriend containing the wants and dislikes we discussed... yes. I would like to be your boyfriend."

"I really want to hug you right now," Martin says, wobbly, and Jon goes to him without a second thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- biting and scratching  
> \- martin gets turned on  
> \- brief instance of self-injury/self-harm by stimming, and oblique reference to ABA-like therapy
> 
> Also, I want to thank everyone who commented from the bottom of my heart, and apologize for not replying to comments more promptly.
> 
> Also also, alternate titles for this fic: "if you want the reward of being cat, you have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of talking about what you goddamn want"


	6. Chapter 6

"Oh, here," Martin says, just before he sits down. He rummages in his pocket, takes out something small and offensively shiny. "Look what I found in the hospital gift shop."

Jon squints. "What is that?" He takes the object to answer the question himself, turning it around to get a good look at it in the restaurant's dim light. What it is is a small toy, heavier than it seems like it should be, shaped like a turtle. On its back it has sequins. "Why would you buy that?"

Martin shrugs, now sat down in the chair. "It was cute. The sequins do the flippy thing, see?" He motions Jon to give him the turtle and demonstrates rubbing his finger over the sequins which do, in fact, flip. 

"This is an abomination and a betrayal to good taste," Jon says, but takes the toy back when Martin offers it. The sequins are green on one side and silver on the other. Jon makes a jagged pattern before making himself drop it. "What are you going to do with it?"

Martin glances around them. The restaurant isn't too busy, but he still lowers his voice to say, "I thought you might like it. For, you know."

Jon rolls his eyes. "It's an eyesore." He flips all the sequins to make the back pure silver, and drops it again. The weight is admittedly nice. "But," though it pains him to say the words, "thank you for the thought."

"You're welcome." Martin looks pleased, and does not take his atrocity away. "So, how's work?"

They pass an unexceptionable dinner, and at the end Jon says, "Don't forget your toy horror."

"Sure you don't want to take it?" Martin says, looking at Jon's hands, which have picked the toy up at some point without his conscious intention or knowledge. 

Jon's mouth firms. "Yes." He shoves the toy resolutely in Martin's direction. "I should be getting over this childishness, not inviting it further into my life."

Martin blinks. "What do you mean?"

Jon sighs at having to spell this out. "It's bad enough that I can't stop myself going to romps," he says, "or behaving in silly ways. At least right now it's... contained."

Slowly, Martin says, "I didn't realize you were trying to stop."

"Not with very great success," Jon admits.

"But... why?" Martin has a little furrow in the middle of his brow. To Jon's embarrassment, he finds it cute. "What's wrong with being a little silly, having a little fun? Do you think the others are wrong to be doing it?"

"For them it's a sex thing," Jon says bluntly. "Or it's about pain, or punishment, or... something that makes sense as an adult activity. Not just pretending to be a cat so they can hiss at people they don't like."

For a long moment, Martin's silent. Then he says, "I mean, there's a reason they call it _play_. And I've been enjoying playing with you, without any of the stuff you just mentioned. Is that wrong?"

Abruptly, Jon is tired. He'd probably run away and hide in a tube if he could, and that thought makes him even less inclined to keep up this line of conversation. "I don't feel like having a discussion about this."

"Alright," Martin says. "I'll just... take the toy, shall I?" He moves carefully when he puts the toy back in his pocket, like he's afraid of shattering the dishes on the table. 

Jon nods. He doesn't offer Martin a goodbye hug when they part, and that weighs on him. It feels like punishing Martin, who's done nothing wrong; but Martin had explicitly stated a boundary around Jon doing things he didn't want, and he is not up for being touched at all.

* * *

When Jon wakes up, he has no memory of his dream, just lingering distress. He groans and rolls under the blanket Martin gave him. Since getting it, Jon has at times been able to turn over and go back to sleep.

This does not appear to be a night where this tactic will work. After some futile minutes spent shifting about, he wriggles out of the blanket and goes to his computer.

He mostly means to do work, but he has Skype open and he sees Martin is online. _What are you doing up?_ Jon sends, without too much thought.

_Shift starts in two hours. What about you?_

Oh, of course, Martin's been on the night shift recently. Jon kicks himself for forgetting. _Couldn't sleep, trying to get some work done._

The little dots that show Martin is typing appear and disappear several times. Then he writes, _Poor thing. Want me to come over and make you tea?_ quickly followed by, _Sorry, joking, I have a shift like I said._

_I know._ The shitty thing is, Jon _does_ know that, but for a bare moment between these two messages, some part of him thought Martin might in fact come. That Jon wouldn't have to be alone. He wants it so much that he can smell Martin's presence, the lingering hint of antiseptic soap and the scent of his skin underneath it. Feel the warmth of Martin's body bracketing him, keeping him in place.

Jon tries to drink his tea, but the cup wavers too much in his hand. He puts it down before he spills any. _Thank you for offering,_ he types.

_I really would love to if I could._

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them, blinking forcefully. Again he types, _I know._

* * *

The spanking bench feels tacky under him, faux leather sticking to Jon's stomach where his shirt has ridden up. 

"When punishing a pet," Elias says, in his presentation voice, "several factors need to be taken into account." He keeps talking, but Jon stops listening. Instead he looks around at the people watching, none of whom have eyes. Instead, they have black round voids in their face, and they're all nodding seriously as Elias talks, even though they have little round voids for ears, as well.

"No," Jon says. "Make him stop." The words are painful to say, feel like stomping on his own pride, but he has to. He has to, or Elias will....

But nobody says anything, or stands up, or otherwise intervenes. None of them notice him. They just watch without seeing, listen without comprehending, and none of them care. 

"Jon?"

None of them exist. He doesn't exist, spiraling into nothingness--

"Jon!"

Jon's eyes blink open, and for a moment he is everything and nothing, surrounded by shapes and colors....

But there's heaviness on him, real and grounding. The blanket Martin gave him. And that's Martin's voice, calling to him. The rest of the world still makes no sense, but Martin is here. Martin has stayed with him before. Jon makes a plaintive noise and reaches his hand out, trying to grope in Martin's general direction.

Martin speaks, and Jon can't quite make it out, but then Martin's hand is warm and solid in his, and Jon can breathe. 

When he can think again, the first thing he does is wipe the wetness off his face. Then he sits up. The shapes around him resolve into his own living room, and then there's Martin at his side, crouching. Jon makes room for him on the couch and pats it.

Right. Memories of the night before start filtering in: Martin came to his after the romp, and Jon invited him to stay over again. "Did I make a noise?" Jon says, tongue thick in his mouth.

"Yeah." Martin's eyes are fixed on him, worried. "Kind of whimpering. Didn't sound like a good dream."

Jon swallows with difficulty. "It was not." 

Fabric rustles as Martin shifts in place. He brought sleep clothes with him this time. His pyjamas have ducklings on them. "Want to tell me about it?" Jon shakes his head. "Alright. Tea?"

Jon can't answer. Instead, he smooshes his face into Martin's neck, clinging. He still feels like he might shiver apart, but the feeling lessens when Martin wraps his arms around him. 

"No tea, I take it," Martin murmurs. His hands rub circles over Jon's back.

* * *

In the morning, Jon makes them both tea and says, "I should probably explain myself."

Martin is still rumpled with sleep, sat next to Jon's kitchen table and squinting at him. "You don't have to."

"I feel like you deserve an explanation." Jon brings his mug to his face and gently blows on the tea. 

"You still don't have to." Martin makes a considering face. "If you want, I could tell you what I gathered myself, and you can correct me or add missing pieces if you like."

The wave of relief that washes through Jon is almost enough to make him drop his tea. "Right. Please."

Martin tilts his head. "As I understand, you had at least one ex, possibly several, who were absolutely horrible and whom I'd like to set on fire." Jon gives a brief laugh, startled and awkward. "They crossed your boundaries and made you feel bad for having them in the first place." Then Martin hesitates.

"What else?" Jon prompts.

"You're... I don't know the label you prefer. Or whether you even have one. You like to do sensory stimulating activity, and it seems to help you a lot when you do, but you barely do it at all outside of cat space. Which I think might account for some of your sleeping troubles."

"And my temper, I suppose?" Jon asks. Martin shrugs guiltily and doesn't say anything. Jon winces. "I think that's just my personality, actually."

"I didn't say it accounted for all of it," Martin says, "but most people are snippy when they don't get enough sleep, and the same goes for stimulation needs."

What Martin says about labels makes no sense to Jon, but then, labels rarely do. However, with regards to needing, what did Martin call it, _stimulation_... "That just sounds like an excuse to be," he gropes for words. "Selfish." At Martin's raised eyebrows, Jon expounds: "It's just things that I enjoy. It's not like food or sleep. I shouldn't react so strongly when I don't get them."

"Look at it that way," Martin suggests. "If not getting something has such a strong effect on you, maybe it is something you need? Even if it's not like food or sleep. There's plenty of needs people have where they won't die if they aren't met, but it's still not great for them. Did you know people start going insane if they don't interact with plants every so often, even plastic ones?"

Jon blinks. "That's bizarre."

"But it's true! There's articles about it and everything." Martin takes a sip of his tea. "I'm not trying to tell you what to do, Jon, or, or what you need. That's just how it seems to me. I have this autistic person in my trans group, Mike, and he told me about how he can need stimulation like that."

Jon frowns. "I'm not autistic." 

"Like I said, I'm not saying which label you should use, and it's not just autistic people at any rate. I'm just saying that some people are like that, and it's usually better to accept what you want and need rather than saying you shouldn't."

Jon exhales and drinks some of his tea. "Anyway, I don't know about any of that stimulation nonsense, but you're right about the ex." He swallows. "Elias. It was... bad."

"I gathered." Martin gives him a sympathetic look. 

Jon considers telling Martin more. About meeting Elias when he was still at uni, being dazzled by his knowledge and wit; about Elias introducing him to kink and the kink scene; about Elias hiring him once he'd graduated, and waving off Jon's concerns about workplace entanglements. About how it all seemed to go downhill so fast, even though the warning signs were there right from the start. 

Just the thought of putting it all into words makes Jon want to crawl back under the blanket and never come out again. "It's a long story. If you want to ask Georgie, she knows most of it. I might... I don't know. Not now."

"You don't have to," Martin says, and the repetition should be infuriating, not comforting. "You don't ever have to."

Jon finishes his tea and eyes the blanket. It would feel good to burrow under it. 

Martin catches his gaze, though, and asks, "Do you want the blanket? I can carry it back to your bed so you can spread out."

The concept is appealing, though it strikes him as very bad hospitality. "I shouldn't," Jon demurs. "You're a guest, and I can't just go to bed like you're not here."

Martin makes a considering noise. "Suppose you were a cat, though."

Jon isn't certain he's willing to entertain Martin's idea, but he does want to hear what it is. "And supposing that?"

"Then it makes sense if I put your favorite blanket on your bed, because humans do that for cats they like, and you can lie down wherever you want. And if you're okay with that, I might sit on the bed next to you and read. Above the blanket. Like I said, it's too hot for me."

"That," Jon says, suspicious, "does not sound like a particularly good Sunday morning for you."

Sanguine, Martin says, "To me it sounds wonderful. If you don't like it, of course...."

Jon mutters something indignant and goes to flop on the bed. Martin comes after him, spreading the blanket over Jon, who melts with a happy sound. 

He ends up napping, lulled by the soft sounds of Martin turning pages and scribbling in the margins. Sunlight filters in through the bedroom window and Jon is right there in the sunny spot, held by the blanket, anchored to reality by Martin's quiet presence. Just before falling asleep, he squirms so he can lay his head in Martin's lap. 

Martin stills. "Petting?" he asks Jon, hushed, like they're in church. Drowsily, Jon nods.

He falls asleep with Martin's fingers gentle on his nape, feeling watched over, protected. He doesn't dream at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- fic typical nightmares, including allusions to consent violations  
> \- mention of grooming  
> \- Jon claims he's not autistic, which as the author I guarantee you he super is but he is not willing to acknowledge it/informed enough on what that is  
> \- internalized ableism
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this far! I hope to write a couple of supplemental ficlets including sex, Martin's POV and some other stuff. This fic didn't address everything but, well, look what I'm working with *gestures at Jon*

**Author's Note:**

> This now has [gorgeous art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18358868/chapters/53781538) by LineCrosser!


End file.
